Lira was talking to the flowers again.
Not a loud conversation. Just a gentle murmur, the kind of sound that belonged in a garden the way wind did—there, without demanding attention. She moved between the flower beds with a small pair of shears, snipping away dead growth that, given how little there was, did not really need removing. The blooms leaned faintly toward her as she passed. One, a pale violet thing near the wall, turned its face to follow her shoulder. Lira did not seem to notice. She probably did not need to.
Nearby, Aria sat on a low stone bench near the far wall, knees drawn up, a book open in her lap. She had not turned a page in minutes. The evening light caught the edge of her jaw, the faint shadow of exhaustion she had stopped bothering to hide here. Her thumb rested against the page, still.
